Chapter 24 Sebastian #2
“The product,” I said. “I paint because I like painting. It’s funny to make weird shit.
But when you play, there’s passion and fury and heartache behind it.
When you’re up there, you’re like a piece of art yourself.
When I’m painting, I’m just thinking, ‘how can I make this the weirdest, coolest thing anyone has ever seen?’”
“Humor might not be an emotion, but the joy it provokes is.” She laid her arms on the Formica and interlocked her fingers, smiling.
“We have different styles with our art, but that doesn’t make yours any less legitimate than mine.
Just like a screamo band, or a country band, or a pop singer.
They aren’t any less of artists just because we produce different kinds of music. ”
“We’re gonna have to agree to disagree.” Raising my arms at my sides in surrender, I shrugged. “When art becomes nothing more than a product like it is for pop singers, I don’t see it as art anymore.”
“Now the commercialization of art, that’s another conversation.
One that I can talk about for hours.” Gwen sat up, tucking one of her legs under the other.
“But that’s not the conversation we’re having.
You don’t even sell your art. It’s for fun, for entertainment, and for laughs.
Mine is for relaxation and peace. Both are art. ”
I just waved her off.
“Don’t dismiss me.” Mouth falling open, a smile played at the corners of her lips. “You know what? I don’t even think it’s about your definition of what art is and isn’t.”
“No?”
“Nope.”
“And what is it then?”
“Self-esteem issues,” she said, nodding quickly. “It’s typical among men like you, you know.”
“Alright.” I reached for a napkin at the edge of the table and patted it against the corners of my eyes. “I’m ready for your daily dose of emasculation.”
“Actually, I’m trying to do the opposite.” She studied me carefully. “You were the weird kid in school. You outgrew it, but in your head, you’re still the awkward nerd. So now, you have chronically low confidence.”
That wasn’t where my self-loathing came from. But I’d entertain it. “Do I?”
“You do.” A curt nod. “You disguise it with sarcasm, but I guess as your… I don’t know, whatever I am, it’s my job to compliment you. So don’t argue with me when I tell you that you’re an amazing artist, because you are.”
Her admiration had my chest warming more than the coffee in my hands ever could. Of course, I would never say that aloud. Why? Well, I didn’t know. Rhiannon would probably have a good answer if I asked.
“That sure was a bossy way to give a compliment,” I said.
“Never claimed to be passive.”
“I could say the same thing about you.” I narrowed my gaze the same way she had hers. “Maybe your sarcasm is a disguise for your low self-esteem.”
“Oh, no. It’s not my low self-esteem.” Gwen shook her head, tone still playful. “It’s a defense mechanism because I’m afraid of letting anyone in. In Rhiannon’s expert opinion, anyway.”
I had said it to poke fun. Because that was how the two of us communicated. We teased and bickered. It was the root of our friendship. But I didn’t believe her self-esteem was low. Gwen had a robust sense of confidence. I envied it.
“That one checks out,” I said.
But she had nothing to be afraid of.
I would cut off my own hand before I dare raise it at any woman, let alone Gwen.
If that was what she was afraid of, if she feared that I was putting on a show, and one day, my true colors would too closely resemble her ex-husband’s, she didn’t need to be afraid. This brash, sarcastic asshole was me.
I was no sheep in wolf’s clothing. What you saw with me was what you got.
Beneath the rough exterior, yes, I was a humanitarian.
But I was, in fact, the brash, sarcastic asshole I showed to the world.
That was me. I was more than that, just as everyone was more than one thing, but this was no facade.
Maybe that wasn’t what she feared.
“Why do you think that is?” I asked.
Confused, Gwen asked, “Why do I think what is?”
“Why are you afraid of letting anyone in?”
Something between a scoff and a laugh escaped her. “Why is anyone afraid of letting people in?”
“Because they’re afraid of getting hurt.” Resting my elbows and forearms on the table, I leaned in. “I think we have that in common, actually.”
“Considering you’ve been single for the last decade, I’d have to agree.”
Always so witty, so teasing. Someone else may have found that offensive, but not me. I knew it was just Gwen’s way of leveling the playing field. How could she be vulnerable when I wasn’t?
“Fair enough,” I said. “In my defense, I do have Lizzie to worry about. But lots of people date when they have kids, so I think you make a valid point.”
“Technically, it was the point you made. I was just agreeing.” She, too, rested her forearms on the table and leaned closer. “What are you afraid of?”
I couldn’t say it. It’d scare her. And it should’ve. She should’ve, on some level, been afraid of a future with me. With genes like mine, everyone should’ve been afraid to get too close to me.
But she deserved some version of the truth. “The American dream. A white picket fence that seems oh-so perfect to the rest of the world but looks more like iron bars from the inside looking out.”
She arched her brows at that, eyes softening. “Deep.”
A crooked half smile. “Your turn.”
With a quiet sigh, she returned the expression. Only for a moment. Then her gaze fell to the table, around the room, and she nibbled on her lower lip. Supposed this wasn’t the question Rhiannon had asked in therapy. It took longer than expected for her to look me in the eyes again.
When she did, they were the gentlest I had ever seen them. “Betrayal.”
“Being betrayed by what, exactly?”
“Anything. Everything.” The wall stayed down.
Her voice, her eyes, everything about her stayed soft.
“Infidelity, sure. That would suck. Violence, obviously. Promises that we’re in this together, that we want this to work, but not showing up for the hard conversations that will inevitably arise.
Stonewalling or gaslighting when I’m upset about something and want to work through it.
Swearing that you’re in this, that you want this, and then abandoning me when things aren’t easy. ”
Without thought, I said, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her eyes sparkled for half a second, then her cheeks turned red. An awkward smile pulled at the corners of her lips as she leaned back.
“What?” I studied her. “What was wrong with that answer?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Smiling, she shook her head. “It’s just—I don’t know.”
I slid my hand across the table and onto hers. As our fingers twined together, I said, “I think you do. And hey, you’re the one who said it. You want someone who’s going to show up for the hard conversations, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“But you’re gonna be the one who ducks out?”
She traced her tongue along her teeth, a smile still resting over it. A deep inhale dropped between her barely parted lips. “We haven’t been doing this for very long. It’s not that I don’t believe you, but words are words.”
I understood. She needed time to believe me. I didn’t blame her for that. It’s not like I was in any rush either. “That’s alright. Eventually, you’ll believe me.”
She gave my hand a squeeze. “And eventually, you’ll believe me.”
The only problem was me. That I wasn’t sure if I believed myself.
So, I changed the subject. “You know, I like seeing you perform.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. There’s something different about you afterward.”
“It’s the poor folks’ high.”
I snorted. “The what?”
“That’s what my mom used to call it. That feeling after a live performance. Even if I’m not the one performing, when I leave a concert, if the music’s good, I just feel this rush. Like nothing could go wrong. Like everything makes sense for once. Like my brain has finally shut off.”
It seemed to me that, for the first time, her mind was fully open. Maybe the music dulled the racing thoughts, her worries and anxieties, but she was more available and vulnerable than ever before. That was what I liked about it. How honest it made her.
“But why phrase it like that?” I asked. “Anyone can listen to music. It’s not class dependent.”
“She always said because it was similar to coke. The rich man’s high.” Laughing, Gwen shook her head. “It’s strong, it comes on fast, and it’s gone in heartbeats.”
I laughed too. “I guess I can see that.”
“Does painting give you that same rush?”
“Not really. I get more of a rush when I successfully finish a surgery,” I said. “Knowing I saved a life, knowing I helped someone, that’s what I get a rush from. Art is just fun for me.”
The smile that spread across her lips made my heart skip a beat. “I think that’s my favorite thing about you.”
“What’s that?”
“How much you care.” Her eyes twinkled, perhaps with tears, but she didn’t let them escape.
“That’s what I meant earlier. You act like you’re so apathetic, but you’re so gentle.
The way you are with Honey. How great of a job you’re doing with Lizzie.
The fact that you could have been a billionaire, but you chose to fund the ranch…
I don’t know. Your heart’s just so big.”
I tried my best not to cringe, but inside, I did just that.
Gwen was an intelligent woman. Surely she wasn’t so na?ve. After all the time she’d spent with Rhiannon, all she had learned at the ranch, why did she keep her rose-tinted glasses on?
I knew what a bad man was. My father had been. I was not that. Yes, I was a half decent man. But only half decent.
“I don’t think I’ve ever pretended to be apathetic,” I said, surprised at how timid my voice came out. “That’s just how I am sometimes.”
She laughed again. “Can you just take a damn compliment?”
It wasn’t the compliment that made me uncomfortable. It was what that compliment implied.
The dark exterior was not an act. It was a part of myself I wished I could lock away. I could be cold. I could shut myself off from everyone and everything when I had to.
I wasn’t my father. But I was my father’s son. I kept a noose around my temper, but it was there. It could break the rope I had around its neck if it tried hard enough, if it needed to escape.
It had before.
It wasn’t a ticking nuke, sure to explode again. More like an idle bomb lost in rubble after a war. Years could go by, decades even. Then someone would step on it.
And boom.
Off it’d go.
I was not a passive man. I could be, and had been, violent.
But not to Gwen. I would never hurt her. No matter how dark, how cruel I could be, I would never direct it at her.
There was no way to say that, to make her understand that complexity without scaring her away. Her paranoia and distrust would send her running if she knew it all.
I couldn’t risk that. I wanted this. I wanted her.
But I didn’t know how to explain it all.
So I said, “I don’t deserve a pedestal, Gwen. Don’t put me on one.”
“Please.” Waving me off with one hand, she squeezed mine with the other. “I don’t have anyone on a pedestal.”
“I’m just saying. I’ve seen what happens when women put barely decent men on pedestals. It’s not good for anyone.”
“You’re not ‘barely decent.’” Her eye contact was still soft, but intense. “I see you for who you are, and that’s what I like so much. Most people try to hide the bad. But you do the opposite. You hide the best parts of yourself. You pretend you’re not as soft as you are.”
“Maybe they’re not the best parts. Maybe softness gets you hurt.”
She huffed, eyes falling to our hands, still twined together. “And is that what you like about me? That I’m never soft?”
“That’s what I adore about you.”
Gwen rested her chin in her hands again. She flashed a grin. “Then we have a perfect understanding of one another.”
Me, more than her.